Of Many and Varied Circumstances
by passioninprose
Summary: My take on the Fanfic 100 prompt table for Sherlock Holmes – a collection of short stories mainly focused around the Holmes and Watson dynamic.
1. Beginnings

**Beginnings.**

The relative quiet of our sitting room, (relative, as Holmes was plucking at his violin, kindly refraining from his usual sawing as I was engrossed in a novel), was interrupted with the deliverance of a telegram for my friend. Holmes waved the ruffian toward me, his mind hundreds of miles from the room. I took the envelope and offered the lad perusal of our abandoned dinner table which he gladly accepted, stuffing his pockets with the tarts Holmes and I had neglected to eat. Then, with an "'Evening, Gents,' he departed.

Holmes did not rise from his seat, being, as I was aware, in a strange mood, so I stood to give the message to my companion. He took it from me with limp fingers, as though completely disinterested by the idea of communication, although after lazily opening the envelope and skipping down to see who it was from, his entire body stiffened with alertness, abruptly standing up just as I had retaken my seat.

The wooden chamber of his instrument rang with reverberations as it unceremoniously landed in his chair, its performer pacing around, muttering the message aloud.

"Urgent message for Sherlock Holmes. Suspect eluded…"

He clicked his tongue as he continued to read, before stopping dead to the left of the fireplace, his eyes positively glowing with excitement.

"Please come. At wit's end. Lestrade."

"Now wait just a minute, Holmes," I said, watching Holmes clutch the message with trembling hands. "What did the rest of the telegram say?"

"No matter, we must hurry!" he cried, crushing the paper in his fist as he rushed back to his room.

I scoffed and returned to my pipe, listening as Holmes began his process of packing (which consisted of throwing and banging things about) from behind his bedroom wall.

"Come, Watson!" Holmes shouted, throwing open the door to the stairs from his room and bounding down the seventeen steps – I could hear he had reached the foyer before I had even stood.

"Whatever it is, it must be ghastly to get you this wound up," I called, opening the door to the stairs from the sitting room as I collected my things.

"Watson!" he boomed, his voice ringing through the stairwell. "There isn't time for your badgering! **Mrs. Hudson!**"

I grinned as I heard Mrs. Hudson's indignant yelp from below, and as I threw on my coat, I thought to myself that it didn't really matter _what_ the message had detailed, rather that it had come, and brought with it that which my companion craved – the beginning of a familiar cycle.

* * *

><p><em>Obligatory First Chapter Author's Notes!<br>_Welcome aboard my personal attempt at fulfilling a Fanfic 100 prompt table! I would like to take this opportunity to share some tidbits about the nature of this work and myself.

The stories will not be chronological, and for the most part they will be able to stand on their own. I'll be writing the prompts out of order as well, and if I do link some prompts together, I will note that somehow.

Each chapter will vary in length – I will try and get at least one good potato-eating sized chapter in this mix, hopefully more, but I imagine the majority of them will be between 50-1000 words. We'll see how things go.

The rating T is mostly for safety's sake; I doubt most of these stories will deserve it, but I imagine some will.

I have been known to update sporadically (as in seemingly never), and while my bosom friend graceofnight and author KCS whom I both deeply admire have inspired me as of late to write more, I cannot promise that I will remain diligent in my updates – please forgive me! Considering the short nature of these stories I will do my best to update on a semi-regular basis, and feel free to try and guilt me in to updating if I fall behind – it'll probably be effective. Reviews make me a happy writer! ;D

Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!


	2. Too Much

**Too Much.**

I came rushing down the stairs from my room at Holmes' booming calls. I threw open the door to our sitting room to be greeted with a great wall of chemical smoke; the smell was atrocious, and I sincerely hoped it was not toxic as I ran through it to my friend.

He was near the open windows, fanning out the room with a large newspaper as he coughed. I took another large sheet and began to do the same, yelling "What in God's name happened here, Holmes?"

Apparently, it was possible for Holmes' face to flush even deeper than his cough already provided, and he sputtered out his answer as if not too keen on revealing it. "I seemed to have made an elementary mistake in conversion, Watson – what should have been a minute amount was mixed in as nearly a litre!"

I spared him the embarrassment of questioning how such a mistake could have been made, but as we continued to fan out the room I noticed the walls of Holmes' chemical corner were splattered with odd mossy green patches.

"Mrs. Hudson will not be pleased," I remarked, to which he groaned loudly. "Considering the state you left the fireplace after that other experiment-gone-awry earlier this week."

"Not now!" he barked as he continued to air out the room, and I coughed both at the smoke and to hide my growing amusement at the situation.

However, as I'm sure my companion felt as well, a chill of fear ran down my spine, erasing all traces of mirth, as the sound of our landlady's shrill cry floated up from the street through the open windows.

"_Mr. Holmes_!"

_Continued_


	3. Not Enough

_Continued_

**Not Enough.**

My ears still rang with the shrieks of a woman pestered as Holmes and I made our way down Baker Street, having been temporarily ejected from our quarters as Mrs. Hudson's tirade had come to a conclusion.

I looked sympathetically over to my friend, who, in his shock, still had his hands placed over his chest as though protecting them from another strike from our irate landlady.

"Perhaps I should have offered a more gracious apology," Holmes remarked gravely as we walked.

"Perhaps so," I agreed, patting his shoulder reassuringly.


	4. Food

**Food.**

My companion and I, having just returned from an early-morning turned early-afternoon interview with an unfortunate Yarder, were making our way back to Baker Street. I was not entirely sure why we had not taken a cab; perhaps Holmes was too distracted to think of calling for one. The spring in his step only served to remind me of the limp in mine, and his seemingly boundless energy showed me through comparison what bad shape I was in. My uneven steps slowed and the distance between my colleague and I grew as I paused for breath in front of a barber's shop, leaning heavily on my walking stick.

Holmes quickly noticed my absence, and as he turned around to face me I made up my mind that I could go no further without explaining the state of things to the detective.

"Come, my good Doctor, there isn't much farther to go," he said enthusiastically, bouncing on the balls of his feet in his eagerness. "We must return to Baker Street – you have a grand armchair to rest in there."

I could not help but return his eager smile momentarily; his mood would have been infectious if I had been in a better one. As it were, I sighed, and with a tinge of regret admitted, "Holmes, I do hate to trouble you, but we have not dined since yesterday, and I really must stop somewhere to eat." It was, after all, nearing midday.

Holmes tutted and pulled out his pocket watch, glancing between it and me. "Surely Mrs. Hudson can prepare something quickly for you."

"You forget she has gone to see her sister for the weekend," I retorted, "and the maid, though a kind girl, is a horrific cook."

Holmes hummed distractedly, and when he did not respond to my observation, I continued.

"I know it's easy for you, but I'm afraid I won't last much longer without a proper meal."

He scoffed as he returned his watch to his pocket. "I've gone without for more than five times–"

"Yes, I'm sure you have," I interrupted, a little irate. "Not everyone has your extraordinary metabolism, old fellow. I really must insist."

He gave a great sigh and looked me over once more. I must have looked pitiable, for he sighed again, less dramatically, and nodded his head. "Alright, Doctor. Where do you wish to eat?"

"Oh, anywhere," I said, picking up my walking stick to move toward a café I had spotted during our exchange. He offered his arm to me as I approached him, and I took it as we crossed the street together.

As we entered the café, I glanced over the place and found it was quite popular. I secretly hoped we would not have to wait long, for every passing moment my stomach turned over in its anxiety. My friend's many and varied connections served me well that day, however, and we were quickly seated at the front of the establishment with our service not far behind.

We ordered two coffees and I hastily agreed to the day's special, whatever it was, while Holmes, grinning at my eagerness, declined a meal.

"Are you quite sure you don't want anything to eat, Holmes?" I asked as our waiter walked back to the kitchens.

He raised his eyebrows at me. "You know me better."

I returned his look with one of my own.

He scoffed and threw up one hand in an overly dramatic fashion. "I haven't the time."

"You've time enough to stop here with me," I pointed out, smiling slyly.

"I'm not hungry," he said quietly, folding one of his legs over the other and looking out the window near our table.

"Hm."

Our coffees were brought to us and I made quick work of mine, Holmes not turning away from his window. As I set down my empty cup, he pushed his toward me, and at my hesitant look he gave a gracious "Please." I did not press my luck.

While we waited for my (mysterious) meal, Holmes asked if I would kindly take some notes for him, and I scripted his dictation. Once I was finished he took the notebook from me and flipped through it, muttering mutely to himself as he glanced over the pages. He apparently became disinterested quickly, though, and took back to looking out the window with a morose expression.

"I do hate to waste your time," I said quietly after a minute or so of this, giving him a small, teasing smile, "but it isn't as though I requested to take a stroll or visit the barber's."

He turned his head back to me, and returning my small smile, he must have understood the meaning in my words for he cheered up a bit and began chatting with me about this or that.

We were discussing his vehement dislike of the Savoy when my food arrived. Unable to help myself, the plate had hardly touched the table before I picked up my knife and fork, Holmes watching me with an amused look. I could see him thinking quickly behind that smile, and before our server had gotten too far, he called for him.

"Forgive me, my good sir, I've changed my mind – please bring me what my friend has."

The waiter grinned knowingly as he took out his notebook to write down the request. "It's one of our most popular dishes. A few minutes, please."

I looked at my friend quizzically as the server walked back to the kitchens, but Holmes held up a hand and spoke before I was able to question him.

"As I am unable to do much proper thinking in this atmosphere, my time would be better spent doing more appropriate things as the situation demands."

"… Huh."

We stared at each other momentarily before Holmes' expression broke and he wrinkled his nose.

"Oh, alright, I suppose it does smell nice."

I grinned at my small victory, and Holmes returned it.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note<br>_Funny story – I originally wrote out this idea for BBC's series Sherlock some time ago, using their characters of Sherlock and John instead of Holmes and Watson. I went back to it recently and tried to clean it up to post it here, but for some reason I just couldn't get it to work right for me; something about it was off. I ended up completely re-writing it for this collection, and I must say it works a hundred times better in this context than it did in its original one. Go figure.


	5. Moon

**Moon.**

The night air was cool and still, an evening mist clutching great buildings which cast great shadows as Sherlock Holmes wove between them. His black figure, dwarfed by the stone walls that surrounded him, moved effortlessly through the alleys and back passages, the heel of his shoes making barely a sound as he strode over dirt and cobblestones. In spite of the mist, the night sky was clear as glass, the friendly stars twinkling down and offering what little light and guidance they could, though he did not need them; he was determined in his path.

He edged around the dim light of a window he had rounded upon, taking little note of the conversation between a man and woman through the pane; their light, their warmth, their home only served to remind Holmes of what he lacked. His steps slowed as he stepped back in to the inky darkness, running his fingers across the wall of their dwelling, condensation collecting on his fingers.

It was often times like these where his heart grew heavy. Though his travels often kept his mind from his loneliness, these dark forsaken paths were better traversed with a companion, not only for another pair of senses in the dark, but also to ease the oppressive air of the night. Here, there was no distraction. Here, his only company was the memory of a man who thought he was dead – a lie Holmes was only too eager to reveal, but it was impossible. The time had not yet come.

He blinked as he realized he had paused in his walk, leaning against the wall of the couple's home. His body gave him much resistance as he pushed himself away from the stone, lifting one heavy foot after the other as he continued on. No residence waited for him, but he knew the dangers of brooding for too long – there was always a risk, being alone.

At the end of the long, thin alleyway Holmes came upon what seemed to be a small courtyard at the intersection of four buildings. The bits of grass and gravel, covered with mist, were glimmering in a soft light that Holmes at first could not determine the source of; there was no gas lamp to be seen. Only when he lifted his head toward the heavens did he realize a column of the full moon's light was illuminating this particular patch of earth. Tentatively, he stepped in to it, pressing his back against one of the stone walls as he looked in to the face of the moon.

Unfortunately, like so many other little things, all the astronomical body did was remind him of his friend; he could hear Watson's teasing in his mind – 'Do you _really_ not know the Earth goes 'round the Sun?'

He glanced down to his watch, the face illuminated by the moon's light, the conversion an easy one – it was well past dark where Watson resided. Perhaps, just perhaps the Doctor would be looking up to the same moon, sharing its same face with the detective in spite of the vast distance between them.

He was silent as he mulled over this idea, finding a small, but warm comfort in the thought that in some way, however insignificant, they were still connected.

He parted his lips, his subconscious willing him to speak. Though he was not sure whether he spoke to the moon, the stars, or something even greater, his only wish was that whoever heard his words, they would take consideration of them.

"Watch over him for me, would you?"


	6. Heart

**Heart.**

Her hand was growing cold in mine. I could see the light of life slowly dimming in her eyes, but she held fast to me, gathering all of her remaining strength to comfort me one last time. I have never known such resolve in any other person.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, tears running down her porcelain face. "I'm so sorry John, I don't want to leave you alone."

I shook my head as I held her fingers to my lips, gathering the courage to speak. She pulled them away to brush my cheek, a sad smile gracing her beautiful face.

"I will always be with you," she murmured, her hand falling to press against my chest. I was unable to hold back my tears. "All of us will be."

"I know."

I lowered myself to kiss her forehead, holding her hand tightly to me as though I could keep her spirit a little longer within my grasp. As I pulled away, her eyes glistened with unshed tears but I could see she was contented, peace slowly overcoming her. She was silent for a moment as her breathing weakened, her delicate hand trembling in mine. She closed her eyes and my heart tore in two, but her chest still rose and fell as she parted her lips to speak.

"I'll give him all your love."


	7. Children

**Children.**

"What devious little urchins."

"Hm?" Watson lifted his nose from his novel to look up to me. I had been standing at the window for several minutes, amusing myself with passers-by as they traipsed through the several inches of snow that had accumulated during the night; the paper had offered nothing to capture my attention that morning.

"Do you remember how the café has left several wooden crates stacked up near the road?"

"Yes, I wish they'd get rid of them."

"Well. A group of boys have taken to crouching down behind them, arranging the boxes so they can't be seen from the road." Watson stood and walked over to me at our window; we could easily see the group hunched over and snickering to each other as they packed snowballs in to a neat little pile behind their fort. I pointed a little ways down the street at an approaching four-wheeler.

"Oh no," Watson moaned, looking between the carriage and the group of ruffians.

"No, no, watch, it's a little bit cleverer than the usual prank."

One of the boys bobbed his head above their fortress to see what he had undoubtedly heard down the street. He then hurried the other boys to get in to position, each taking an icy projectile in one hand, waiting in complete silence as the carriage approached.

It came up to them and the boys remained quite still. I could see out of the corner of my eye that Watson had expected them to strike for the windows and had just missed their opportunity; I smirked at my knowledge of what was about to occur.

"And…" I said, drawling out the word as the carriage passed their hideaway and carried on just beyond. "Now!"

My prediction was perfect. The boys from behind their fort lobbed their snowballs up in to the air, each landing with a resounding thud on the roof of the carriage. The driver gave a great start and whipped around, shouting what must have been crude threats to his attackers, but his search proved to be in vain. The boys had their hands shoved nearly down their throats to keep themselves from laughing and giving themselves away behind their boxes.

"My word," Watson laughed as the driver gave a great huff and continued on down the road.

They're quite accurate considering they do not see their target."

"They have been practicing for some time now," I informed my companion, Watson giving another chortle and returning to his chair. "Though their craftiness is to be admired, children are quite bothersome when they resort to pointless mischief. I thank Heaven I will never have to go through the trouble of caring for one."

I had been speaking frivolously; the meaning of what I had said only hitting me after I had finished. Watson did not make any remark to my statement, and I was suddenly afraid that I had overstepped my boundaries. How insensitive was I, to say such a thing when I knew his poor wife had died in childbirth?

I had to quickly make amends.

"I apologize, that was… imprudent of me to say."

He was quiet for a moment, watching me keenly with an unreadable expression. I was becoming exceedingly anxious when, at last, he spoke.

"No, you're right. They're right little terrors."

He must have found my anxiety amusing for he flashed his teeth in a wide smile before he began to chuckle good-naturedly, returning his pipe to his lips. The tension melted away from my form and I grinned, joining him in quiet snickering. I was ever thankful that I was blessed with one of the blithest companions a man could hope for.


	8. Strangers

**Strangers.**

_1881  
><em>I somehow managed to stifle my chuckling as I closed the door on old Stamford, Sherlock Holmes standing behind me at the foot of the stairs, his elbow resting on the railing. He grinned at me as I turned back around, and I returned it, walking to him and beginning the climb back up the steps with him at my side.

"I am sorry, Holmes. As well-meaning as he is, I do admit he can become quite tiresome."

He gave a short, barking laugh in agreement. He then muttered something under his breath so that I was strained to hear it.

"What was that, Holmes?" I asked, all too willing to listen to my friend's admittedly quite rude, but on the whole humorous remarks about the man.

"He is a well-meaning chap for sure, although his assumptions about us were quite ridiculous. Staunch friends, indeed…"

This was certainly not what I had expected to hear, and I stumbled a bit on the thirteenth step in my surprise. Holmes chuckled to himself and continued on to the top, stopping at the landing to wait for me to join him.

I climbed the final step before I spoke again. "Am I not your friend, Holmes?" I asked, forcing a teasing tone in my voice, as though this were some joke of his I was intent on bursting.

He looked over his shoulder at me as he opened the door to our sitting room. His expression was that of puzzlement as he watched me pass through it, holding open the door.

"Hm?"

I turned back to him as he closed the door behind us. "Am I not your friend?"

"Friend? No," he answered, walking around me toward the fireplace, picking up a newspaper from the arm of our settee.

I stared at him, confusion slowly bubbling up within me. He apparently took note of my silence for he glanced back at me and, seeing my expression, quickly added, "That is to say, I have no friends."

I felt my lips part slightly as he took his seat, pulling his knees up to his chest and resting the paper on them, his eyes flitting about the print. I felt stunned. The nonchalant way in which he spoke told me he was quite serious, but I could hardly believe what I had heard.

He took no notice of my silence this time, so I forced myself to speak to him, an indignant inflection in my voice. "Really, now? I certainly haven't found that to be the case."

"You must be mistaken," he replied coolly, tracing the lines of an article with his index finger.

Well, now, I wasn't about to take that lying down. I do not consider myself an unreasonable or, indeed, an overly emotional man, but this exchange had brought out something within me that bit at my patience with the detective.

I walked over to stand at the side of the settee, resting my palm on the armrest where Holmes' paper had been lying minutes before. "Holmes, don't be so ignorant." His gaze bolted back up to me. "You take me on your cases, we've been out to the theatre multiple times… for Heaven's sake, we go on walks together! If I am not your friend, then tell me, what would you call me?"

He looked at me for a long while, his expression cool though I could see he was thinking behind his sharp eyes.

"You are my associate."

"Associate?" I repeated, leaning more heavily against the settee. I suddenly felt a chill in the air.

He lifted his head to watch me as I slowly sat down on the settee, resting my elbow upon the armrest and holding my forehead with my palm. He was looking at me with a strange expression – was it sympathy? – before he spoke again, this time in a more subdued tone.

"I do not mean to imply that I do not like you, old fellow."

I shrugged my shoulders, feeling quite out of sorts. "Of course, Holmes. I just thought…"

I could not finish what I had begun, and for a few moments, the only sound in our sitting room was that of the wind beating against our windows.

Holmes turned his face away from me, back toward the paper in his lap, though his eyes were still as he looked down at the page. "I am sorry if I have disappointed you, Watson."

He did not look back to me.

"… No," I said, the seconds drawing on longer and longer the more I waited to speak. "No, I should apologize." I forced myself to stand up, shoving my hands in my pockets as they had clenched on their own. "I suppose… I must have had things wrong in my head."

He did not reply, nor did his gaze shift an inch, although I could see his fingers were tightening over his knees.

The longer I stood, the heavier the air around me felt, to the point where my shoulders shook with the weight of the atmosphere. I could not say in that place.

I turned 'round to collect my walking stick from the stand near the door, planning to clear my head outside. I had just opened it when his voice caused me to turn my head.

"Watson, I by no means wished to cause you pain."

His expression was strained, and I was a bit surprised to hear the sincerity in his words. What could I do?

I forced myself to give him a brief smile, turning my head back toward the door before it broke. "Of course not, old fellow. I'll just be out for a walk."

I stood outside our sitting room for several minutes. I wish I could say I had been thinking, but my mind seemed to have come to a complete stop in my disbelief. As I finally started back down the stairs, my only thought was a question which until now has been burning in my mind – how could I have so severely misjudged our relationship?

_Continued_

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note<br>_This particular circumstance was brought about through inspiration from KCS's stories Worth and Choice, and Agreement and Disputation. Go read them! You won't regret it!


	9. Friends

_Continued_

**Friends.**

_1881  
><em>Sherlock Holmes asked me to accompany him to conduct one of his routine check-ups at Scotland Yard as he, I think he put it, 'Liked to know what they were up to.' I will admit I was a little surprised, considering our conversation of a few days previous, but as I had taken to sitting quite gloomily around our rooms for that time I was open to the idea of fresh air.

He seemed especially excited to be going as we left Baker Street; why, I was not sure. Part of my self-imposed vigil on the sitting room settee had involved reading the paper, and I was not aware of any interesting case Scotland Yard was currently involved in. I thought to ask him, but I chose not to; I had not fully forgiven him for his tactlessness. After a few days thinking I had convinced myself that he, by choice or by ignorance, was simply deluded regarding our friendship. Yes, friendship. He could call it whatever he liked, but it was what it was.

But even so, I didn't always need like the man.

I was quiet as we reached the Yard, and Holmes began his normal opening conversation with one of the constables. Apparently this fellow knew of Holmes but had not yet encountered him, for he had a vacant look in his face which I admit I found quite amusing. I had lost track of what Holmes was saying to the man as watching his expression morph from disinterest to annoyance to frustration was far more interesting. My attention was finally brought back to the conversation when the constable spoke.

"Yes, _fine_, Mr. Holmes. But who precisely is this?" He was referring to me; I was a little surprised, for I had thought that our companionship was quite known among Scotland Yard's circles.

"This," said Holmes, sweeping a grand arm towards me, "is my _friend_ and colleague, Doctor John Watson."

I could not help myself – I started and turned my head to stare at my companion. The constable whom he was addressing also stared, quite rudely sporting a disbelieving expression.

"Yes," Holmes stated, a wide smile taking over his features as he looked between us. "A first for someone of my kind, I must admit, but nevertheless it is undoubtedly the truth."

He watched me expectantly, a glimmer of uncertainty in his bright eyes, but I was glad to erase it with a growing smile of my own. He offered his hand to me and I took it, shaking it with vigor.

"Yes, indeed, Holmes," I said, much happier than I had been for the last several days.

"… Right," the constable drawled, tapping his notebook with the end of his pencil. "So. What did you _want_, Mr. Holmes?"

I could hear the constable give a great sigh as Holmes and I continued to grasp each other's hands with comically large smiles on our faces.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note<br>_Thanks again to KCS for graciously allowing my plot bunnies to feed from her writing.


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